She tipped the valet and peeled out of the drive and around the lot. Okay, maybe she’d gotten three drinks in her. I barely had time to duck before she came out of the exit, almost directly across from where I’d parked. She drove back toward the highway. As I did a U-turn I hoped she didn’t recognize my 4-Runner. What kind of an amateur was I not to even try and hide myself?
But if Amanda spotted me, she either didn’t care or was lousy at losing a tail. She kept a steady speed of ten miles an hour over the limit as she headed toward downtown Denver. We kept that pace for ten minutes and I wondered if she was going to my office. But we soon came to the Cherry Creek Mall, an upscale shopping center. It appeared that Amanda was throwing over drinking for shopping.
I parked and followed after her, hearing her heels click on the concrete as she walked through a parking garage to the Neiman-Marcus entrance.
I got to the door and cautiously peered through the glass but didn’t see her. I stepped inside, hoping she wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby. I didn’t see her at all. I frantically scanned the racks of clothes and displays, cursing under my breath. Then I caught sight of her, going toward the perfume and jewelry area. I started slowly down the aisle, prepared to peruse female lingerie while I kept my eye on her, but she moseyed right by the glass cases and out into the mall.
So, Neiman-Marcus wasn’t her speed. I wondered what was. She walked at a fast clip past a bookstore and a couple of specialty shops. I could smell the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon rolls coming from the CinnaBun shop. Maybe she needed some dessert. My mouth watered. I could use some dessert.
But Amanda turned in another direction. I stopped and window-shopped at a shoe store while keeping my eye on her. She made a beeline to a triangular-shaped kiosk with a map of the mall on one side, an advertisement on another, and a pay phone on the third. Now I was puzzled. What was going on here? Surely she had a cell phone. Why use a pay phone? I could think of only two reasons: her cell phone battery was dead, or she didn’t want any record that she made the call. If the latter, why?
She dialed a number, hung up, and dialed again. She spoke a couple of words, then hung up. I watched her rummage in her purse, pull out a piece of paper, and dial another number from it. She turned in my direction, and I pulled back into the store entrance, glancing discreetly around the corner. Amanda was tapping her foot, apparently listening to endless rings on the other end. She hung up again, this time smacking the phone down harder, making a passerby glance at her. Amanda glared at the lady, threw the piece of paper back in her purse, and stormed back in my direction. I turned quickly and began inspecting a pair of red high heel shoes. Out of the corner of my eye Amanda passed by, looking straight ahead.
“Are you interested in those?” a young salesman asked me.
“Not my color,” I said, setting the shoe down. He turned as red as the shoe while I hurried after Amanda.
She walked back through Neiman-Marcus, apparently heading straight for her car. I chose to leave her to her own business and ran back to the pay phone, just beating a teenage girl with enough gold on her wrists and fingers to stock a jewelry store.
“Excuse me. Emergency,” I mumbled as I picked up the receiver that Amanda was using moments before.
“Asshole,” the girl said and walked off.
“Once a day and twice on Sundays,” I said, with a curt nod. She looked fiercely at me.
I looked for a redial button, but there wasn’t one. Obviously, I thought, not on a pay phone.
“Damn,” I said, and received a glare from an elderly lady who could’ve added diamonds to the teenager’s jewelry store. I smiled at her and walked off.
So I hadn’t found out who Amanda called, and now I didn’t know where she was. Great.
CHAPTER TEN
A calculated guess took me back to Lone Tree, where I found Amanda’s car, parked in a space close to the building. After a couple of hours, I was rewarded with only sore muscles and an intense case of boredom. I left her car there and spent the rest of my evening shooting pool with the Goofball Brothers.
I followed Amanda back to the club on Sunday, where she stayed for the entire day. Monday morning found me again parked near her house, hoping this time for a day more exciting than the daily sabbatical to the country club.
A storm front moving over the mountains made it colder, and the forecast called for more snow. I waited with the engine running, hoping nosy neighbors wouldn’t notice me. At twelve o’clock on the nose Amanda’s Lexus came into view. She seemed to be a creature of habit. I followed her to the club, dreading another day sitting in the 4-Runner. But after a few bored, slow hours, Amanda finally emerged, retrieved her car, and drove off.
The Lexus barreled onto I-25 and continued north. I barely had time to wonder where Amanda was headed before she turned into a gas station, the kind that also had a convenience store with it. She parked near the entrance and dashed inside, returning a few minutes later with a magazine. She got back in her car and drove out of the lot, with me still tagging along.
I puzzled over this development as I followed the Lexus to the Washington Park neighborhood, known for expensive homes near a spacious park. Amanda drove around a couple of blocks, to a posh little Italian restaurant on Clarkson Street called Patini’s.
I parked across and down the street from her, and watched as she left her car near the restaurant and went in, the magazine rolled up in her hand. It was early, just after five, but it looked like the restaurant already had quite a crowd, especially for a Monday evening. I got out, crossed the street, and walked by the front window. I could see her through the glass, smiling in a cute way to a twenty-something looking waiter as he showed her to a two-seater table near the bar. She sat down, and I saw that she was carrying a comic book, not a magazine. She placed it in the middle of the table.
I looked on as she ordered not only a meal, but two drinks as well, chatting with the waiter each time he came to the table. He was tall and thin, wearing tight black jeans with a spotless white apron tied around his waist. But his rear end was at her eye level, so each time he walked away, she paid attention to it. Her husband didn’t seem to be on her mind right now, but then he really hadn’t been all along.
The bill finally arrived, and she paid with a credit card. After she signed the receipt, she took one copy for herself, turned the other over and wrote something on it, then got up and pulled on her coat. She lifted a hand in a coy wave at her waiter and walked out. The waiter waved back at her, came to the table and took the receipt, immediately reading the message on it. Amanda came out the door. I turned toward the window, staring at the waiter inside, with my back toward Amanda. An elderly couple seated by the window stared back at me in surprise. I ignored them as I waited for Amanda to discover me. But she walked quickly to her car, not noticing me in the darkness. Meanwhile the waiter tucked the receipt in his white apron pocket, picked up the comic, and headed for the kitchen. I was vaguely aware of the Lexus pulling out into the street as I dashed around the north corner of the building, looking for a back entrance to the restaurant. Amanda had passed that waiter a note, and I was going to find out what was on it.
I found the back entrance that led into the kitchen and stepped through an unlocked screen door. Even though the outside temperature was dropping, I could feel heat emanating from the hot ovens inside. I looked around until I saw Amanda’s waiter, leaning his hands against a long metal prep table, waiting for an order of food to be filled. The comic stuck out of the back pocket of his black slacks. And no, I was not looking at his ass.
I made eye contact with him and gestured for him to come over.
He gave me a quizzical look, but walked over. “Who are you?” he said with a touch of surprise and a lot of annoyance.
“Archie Goodman,” I said, flipping open my wallet to give him a nanosecond glimpse of my detective badge. “I’m a detective with the Denver Police Department and I need a word with you.” If he asked to scrutinize the badge, I wa
s in trouble.
“What’s going on?” Not scared, just irritated. And not interested in verifying my credentials.
“Would you come with me, please?” He hesitated for a second before walking past me, tapping an older man on the shoulder as he passed by. “I’m taking a quick break,” he said. The other guy rolled his eyes but said nothing.
We stepped outside and away from the small square of light that came from the kitchen door. He reached under his apron and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. A smoking break was probably a common occurrence, which was why no one stopped us.
He lit one, blew smoke into the crisp air, and contemplated me. “What’s this about?”
“What did Amanda tell you?”
“Who?” he asked with genuine ignorance. A gold name tag pinned to his white shirt had “Jack” written on it.
“Amanda Ghering. The lady you served. The one who dined alone. She just left, and she wrote something to you on the receipt. What was it? What did she tell you?”
“Hey, screw you, man.” He flicked the cigarette into a puddle of icy water, and tried to step around me. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I pushed him back against the brick wall, so fast that he exhaled with an “oomph” sound. For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. “Now, you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll haul your ass downtown and we’ll talk there.” I tapped him emphatically on the chest. “Your choice, Jack.” Wouldn’t the Denver Police be surprised when we showed up.
“Hey, all she did was leave her phone number on it, okay?” He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. I grabbed it from him and examined it in the light from the kitchen. In Amanda’s loopy writing, she had scribbled her name and phone number. Underneath that, she had written: “call me.” I turned it over, but there were only the itemized menu items and totals for her meal and drinks.
“That’s it?” I said with a stern glare.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Has she ever come in here before?”
He nodded. “A couple of other times, a few months ago. She’s a hot chick, okay. She’s making her move, I’m making mine, you know?”
“All you’ve done is flirt with her?”
“She flirted with me,” he corrected me. “That’s not breaking the law.” He squared his shoulders and pushed his way past me, saying, “what the hell kind of wacko cop are you?” Before I could respond, he disappeared back into the kitchen. I stood in the cold for a moment, puzzled and a bit embarrassed. Amanda was flirting with him. That could explain coming to this particular restaurant instead of the club, or a place farther south.
I shook my head and strolled back around to the front of the restaurant, still deep in thought. I glanced in the window. Jack was back at work, delivering drinks to one table, taking orders from another. I was about to walk away when I saw him reach behind him and take the comic book out of his pocket, dropping it onto a booth table near the exit. He picked up the bill from the table and walked away.
A slender hand came out and picked up the comic, then a tall brunette in a dark business suit and equally dark overcoat scooted out of the booth. The woman tucked the comic in her overcoat pocket, slung a small purse over her shoulder, and strode three steps to the exit. It all happened so fast that I didn’t see her face at all. As she came out the door, I ducked around the corner and peered out. She hurried quickly down the street in the opposite direction of my car. I hesitated briefly, considered going for my car, thought better of it, and rushed after her. I tucked my head down into my coat, pulling up the collar, and walked with my eyes down. Dark Suit walked down one block and got into a black Chevrolet sedan. I was a half block behind her, so I stepped up my pace. I got a quick look at the license plate before the car squealed away.
I said it repeatedly so I’d remember it as I passed back by the restaurant, and around the corner. I jerked open the kitchen door, walked past a surprised cook and waitress, and up to Jack, who had just come in from the front. He opened his mouth in surprise and started to head back through a swinging door to the restaurant, but I grabbed his arm and pedaled him right on through the prep food tables and ovens. He sputtered in protest as I threw him out the back door. He stumbled into a big plastic trashcan, and fell to one knee.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snarled, picking himself up.
“That’s what I want to know,” I snarled right back. I grabbed him just as he was regaining his balance, and threw him into the wall. “Hey,” he said.
“What’s going on with the comic book?” I asked, pinning him face first against the wall.
“Wha…” he mumbled.
“I saw you pass the comic book to Ms. Dark Suit,” I said, my face an inch from his cheek, my teeth bared. “You passed the comic from Amanda to her. Why?”
“What?” he said, his voice shaking.
“I won’t ask again.” I tightened my grip on his arms, nearly lifting him off the ground.
“Okay, all right.” He coughed. “They paid me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know her name. The lady in the dark suit.” The confession came fast. “She came in one day a few months ago, said that I could make an easy hundred every time I’d make a delivery for her.”
“Deliver what?”
“Comics, man. That’s it. She said someone might come in, request to sit at my table, and leave a comic for me. She said to hang on to it, that someone would be in afterward to get it.”
“What kind of bullshit is that?”
“It’s the truth, I swear,” he said, struggling against me. “Hey man, let go. I swear that’s it.”
“How many times has this happened?” I asked, loosening my grip slightly.
“Three times. Twice before tonight. It was the same two ladies. The pretty one, Amanda, ate and left a comic book, two times. I passed it to the other lady, and she left an extra hundred with her bill.”
“A comic book?” I repeated.
“Yeah, a Spiderman comic. One other time the lady in the dark suit left a comic with a hundred in it. It was an X Men comic that time. I took the hundred and left the comic for that lady Amanda. That’s it, I’m telling you. Leave me alone, man. I’m going to be in a shitload of trouble with my boss if I don’t get back.”
“You’re going to be in shitload of trouble if you’re lying to me.” I pressed him into the wall for good measure.
“It’s the truth.” We were both breathing heavily as I released him. He turned around, rubbing his wrists where I’d held him. He slid along the wall to the back door. “You’re crazy, man. Crazy.”
“And you better hope I believe you,” I said. He looked at me with near terror. It took him two attempts before he got the screen door open. Then he disappeared inside. I almost laughed at his fright.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was time to talk to Amanda again. I’d made that decision before walking out of the alley, so Tuesday morning I was parked in Amanda’s driveway at exactly nine o’clock. I had a suspicion, based on my own experiences with too much alcohol, that she would still be in bed, and I was right.
“Too much vodka last night?” I said when she answered the door, bleary-eyed and tired, after the fourth ring.
“Reed,” she said, her voice a gravelly mix of cigarettes and semi-sleep. “I was hoping you’d stop by.” She wore a stark white terrycloth robe open to her navel. The silk nightgown underneath was too sheer for the cold weather, accentuating body parts I didn’t want to know about. I focused on her face, ashen from what I’d guess to be a massive hangover.
“We need to talk.” I pushed past her and into the living room.
“What’s the matter,” she asked, shutting the door. “Aren’t you still looking for Peter?”
“Yes, I am. But I want to know what’s really going on.” I stalked to the bar and leaned against it. She’d have to step through me to get to any liquor. I crossed my arms and inspected her. She had dark circles
under her eyes, and the white robe drained her face of any color. To say she looked like a ghost would be an insult to Casper and his relatives.
“What do you mean?” She held a hand to her ear, as if our voices were a cacophony of out-of-tune instruments, while she eyed the bar behind me. I’m sure the vodka was calling to her.
“You’ve had me on a wild goose chase, haven’t you?” She didn’t answer. “I’ve been running around trying to figure out where Peter is, but he’s dead, isn’t he? You had him killed, just like you said. You hired someone to kill him, and now you’re trying to cover your tracks by making it look as if you're concerned. Then you hired me, and you've had me calling around to credit card companies and checking with the police. Merrick probably tracked all of that down, but you made me do it again, to keep me busy, and misdirected. And you made a fake ransom note. ‘We will be in touch.’ Like any ransom note would say that.” I couldn’t keep the derision from my voice. “What other bullshit have you concocted?”
“No, that’s not it.” She waved her hands nervously. “You don’t understand.”
“Obviously,” I retorted as she shook her head vigorously, then blanched from the effort.
“Level with me, or I’m out of here right now,” I said.
“No, please,” she pleaded, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “You’re right. I haven’t been honest with you.” A long pause stretched out before us, but I wasn’t going to rescue her. She could fall into the proverbial hole she’d made. She finally let out a huge sigh, and began. “You’re right,” she said again. “I did hire a group to take care of Peter, but something happened. They were supposed to kill him before he ever reached Philadelphia, but they didn’t.”
This Doesn't Happen In The Movies (The Reed Ferguson Mystery Series) Page 6
